The Fall of Imladris
by Earendilion
Summary: What would have happened to Imladris if Frodo had failed? AU. Elrond PoV. Warning: angst, gore, disturbing images, violence. T
1. Chapter 1

**A/N - WARNING **Ok, people. This is probably one of the angsty-est things I've written, so I'm putting a warning here now. THIS IS NOT A HAPPY FIC. **Warning for:** **violence, disturbing images, gore, death, angst.** As you can see by the title and summary, it will not be a happy ending. And, of course, it's **AU**. I'm not going to say enjoy, because enjoyable things will not take place, but I hope, at least, that it's a good read. Questions, comments, and corrections are welcome as always, especially when it comes to the Elven languages. I will try to update at least weekly, but it's a rather complicated and delicate thing to write, so be patient. My apologies to Elrond and the other muses. Hugs and condolences all around. FYI, the random little numbers are footnotes, for those of you who, like me, aren't fluent in Sindarin. Now to the story.

_Chapter One_

He felt broken, dead, lost. It was over. Everything. Everything they had strived for, all hope was lost. Hope… hope… estel. Estel. His youngest's face shimmered briefly before his eyes before unshed tears blurred the vision completely. He thought he would die of the pain and agony he felt when he realized what torments his son was experiencing at that very moment.

And the twins… where were they now? Fleeing for their lives, perhaps. But no. They would not run. They were not cowards. They would not leave Estel behind. Were they being swept back in a wave of those who were fleeing? Or already trapped in the dungeons of Barad-dur? Or… or maybe… He could not think it. Not his sons. No, not they.

It was more of a blind plea then a coherent thought.

The mangled body before him writhed once again in silent agony, striving to breathe, to fill the lungs which were slowly drowning their owner in his own blood. The Elf gurgled once, moaned, and lay still.

Elrond buried his face in his hands, regardless of the blood that they were soaked in, unable to comprehend, to understand. No. No. NO!

The messenger had arrived earlier that day, bloody, torn, and screaming his death toll to the dark afternoon sky. Glorfindel had brought him directly to Elrond, who had demanded to know why the seneschal had not taken one so grievously injured to the healers' wing immediately.

The messenger had answered his question.

"My lord," he had said in a pained rasp, a trickle of blood running down his chin from his mouth, "the Halfling has failed. Mirkwood is dark. They are… the Halfling… orch…."

Those had been his last words. Save the screams that afterward tore repeatedly from his shredded chest.

Glorfindel, Erestor, and Arwen stood nearby. The seneschal looked lost and unsure, uncomprehending, fear and disbelief readable in his eyes. It was both horrible and terrifying to see the once proud legend so blatantly vulnerable and without his usual aura of certainty and security. Erestor had, at first, been struck completely numb by shock, but that had soon given way to a cold resolution, his last line of defense, a mental barrier of resolve no one could penetrate – not this time. Arwen had not spoken since the messenger had arrived. She had grown distant, and a sharp light of desperation flickered in her eyes, as though she refused to give up the hope the rest of them had lost. She clung to this hope as she clung to life, and it burned fiercely and defiantly, refusing to die. But all of her other traits had long since worn away, leaving the little flame of hope to burn wildly, consuming what was left of her.

"What do we do?" Glorfindel asked, his voice quiet. He looked to Elrond for the guidance his lord had always provided, to see some sign of hope there, something to cling to in his eyes. But Elrond had nothing to give him.

"We wait," Elrond said softly, standing and covering the messenger with the blanket. He stared at the lifeless body, the first of many to come, but took a shuddering breath and turned to what remained of his family. "Call everyone together. I must speak with them. There is… there are things to be discussed."

"Can we perhaps go to the Havens?" Erestor asked suddenly, his voice like the crackle of old parchment. "We are so close."

"You may try," Elrond said quietly, wiping his hands methodically and mindlessly, attempting to remove the blood, "though I fear Eriador is no longer the sheltered realm it was. The Enemy will have swept down from the North. It is already a perilous journey, and I cannot be sure that Cirdan will abide long enough for you to reach him."

"You?" Arwen said, her voice cracked and dry from lack of use. "Why do you say 'you,' Adar?" A hint of sorrowful, mourning fear crept into her voice.

Elrond could hardly bear to look her in the eye. Turning to her slowly, he held out a now clean hand to her, and she took it, drawing close to him, her shoulders only faltering once.

"My daughter," he breathed, stroking her hair, "I cannot leave. I am bound – I have been bound to this fate. I cannot leave. You know this."

"Ada, please." She was begging now, clinging to the front of his robes, all attempts towards self-restraint gone. "_Please._ We can do nothing without you. Please come. We need you. _Please._" A single, unacknowledged tear ran down her cheek.

"Arwen," he whispered, "you must understand."

"Understand?" she repeated. "Understand? What am I to understand? That you are giving up? Abandoning hope of escape? I have more of a right – of a _need_ to stay than you, Ada!"

"This has nothing to do with right," he said, "but with duty, and with things that are beyond my control."

"Then take control of what _is_," she hissed, anger clear in her voice. "You still have a choice-"

"My choice is to remain, Arwen," he said firmly.

She stared at him, shock and anger in her eyes. He held her at arms length, gazing back, his decision final.

"You, however…" he began when she said nothing, gentling his tone. "I will not force you to do anything you do not wish, but I strongly advise and desire that you flee to the Havens. Cirdan will be there a while still – he will not leave immediately. There is still time for you if-"

"I will not flee while my father, brothers, and the one to whom I am bound remain," she said, a cool finality in her voice.

"Arwen," Glorfindel said, his own voice pleading and desperate. He and Arwen had always been particularly close. "You cannot begin to imagine what horrors-"

"All the more reason for me to remain, Glorfindel," she snapped. "I will not flee like a coward while the rest stay. My mothers have done it before me, and I do it now."

"We are not asking you to be a coward," Erestor whispered, his tone expressionless and his eyes hollowed. "We ask you to leave behind the forsaken. We ask you – we _beg_ you not to doom yourself to this fate. We could not bear to see you…" Erestor's voice broke. Elrond could not remember the last time that had happened – certainly not in Arwen's lifetime.

She strode calmly and automatically to him and pulled him into a warm embrace, and he held her in return, as he would hold his own daughter. He stroked her hair for several long moments, his eyes unfocused and over bright. Taking a deep breath, he pulled her away and looked hard at her, seeming to have regained his former stony resolve.

"Please, Undomiel," he whispered, touching her cheek. "Please. Do as we ask out of love for us."

Arwen gazed steadily at him, then at Glorfindel, and finally at Elrond. "My choice is to remain," she said quietly, her voice firm.

It took Elrond a moment to conquer his instincts, to refrain from ordering her to leave. He had lost three of his children. He refused to lose his last. But in her eyes, he saw her determination and her love for those who remained and were lost, and knew that nothing he said would sway her. His heart ached.

Taking Arwen gently into his arms, he guided her out of the room and towards the family wing. The others went towards the Hall of Fire, but he intended to take his daughter back to her chambers. As soon as they were inside, she turned into him and held him tightly, all firmness and resolve falling away to bare the frightened, adoring child within. The child who had lost and continued to lose everything and everyone she loved to a horrible fate.

He held her up long enough to sit on the bed and gather her to him, pressing her face into his chest and stroking her hair. Her shoulders shook as she began to cry, her hands curling into fists. He could feel her silently begging him to leave, not to stay and submit himself to the terrors that awaited them all.

How could it all have come to this? They had all known there was no hope, no chance, and yet… and yet they had believed that good would triumph over evil. What fools they had been! Had trying been a valiant attempt of heroes, or a pointless and stupid blunder of blind idiots? And here they were, as much as he would deny it: rabbits in a hole. All they could do was await death in its most gruesome and humiliating form.

Arwen's sobs slowly subsided until she hung limp in her father's arms, staring into nothingness. But before he knew what he was doing, he, too, was weeping, clutching her to him, his tears running down his face and into her hair. As much as he tried, he could not stop. He was losing everything – he had failed them. All of them. And now they would lose everything, as well.

"Ada," she whispered, her hands finding his, "Ada, le melon1."

"Le melon, iell nin. Goheno nin2," he rasped back, his voice breaking.

"You know you do not need to be forgiven," she said, her voice gentle. He marveled at its sudden steadiness.

"I know very little anymore," he whispered, tightening his embrace.

"You must know it is not your fault."

He did not reply.

"Ada, look me in the eye." She twisted around to face him, her tears now forgotten. Her gaze was harsh and her furrowed brow darkened. "It was not your fault. You cannot blame yourself. Please. Promise me."

He did look her in the eye, and he found he could not promise. "Arwen," he said gently, trying to make her understand. "Arwen, I was a leader in this. They looked to me for council, and I sent them all to their doom. We were robbed of hope because of my guidance."

"No," she whispered, her voice strong and firm. "Hope lives." He opened his mouth to retaliate, but she cut him off. "I _know_ this, Adar. And I will live until Hope fails."

He could see in her eyes that she spoke the truth, but his reasoning rejected it. Even if Estel, their Hope, was still alive, for how much longer? For he was truly their only hope now, the only hope to regain Middle-earth from the dominion of darkness. And what a faint, bleak hope it seemed.

1 Daddy, I love you.

2 I love you, my daughter. Forgive me.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

Elrond entered the Hall of Fire, his strength and resolution regained, every inch an Elf-lord of the Noldor. Every face turned towards him, every pair of eyes begging for the wisdom they had so come to expect from their lord whom they trusted and loved as a father. Another wound was dealt to Elrond's heart as he knew he could do nothing to alleviate their fears. Glorfindel, Erestor, and Arwen stood at the head of the multitude, the light of the Eldar resolutely bright in their fierce gazes.

He came to a stop before the roaring fire, allowing the familiar warmth to envelop him, running one hand over the mantle and feeling the cool stone against his hand contrasted with the warmth before he began.

"My friends," he said, turning to his House, "a messenger from Mirkwood arrived earlier this day. He was gravely wounded, and his fëa has already escaped to Mandos. His message, however, was not lost." He felt his hand on the mantle beginning to shake, but he tightened his grip. "The Halfling has failed. Sauron has regained his lost Ring. Mirkwood has already grown dark, and the rest of Arda is to follow. We will not be spared."

As he had expected, the Hall was suddenly filled with gasps and cries of horror. Some looked unbelieving, others shocked into numbness. Many sat with hardened faces, neither moving nor showing any expression.

A young Elf, no more than two centuries old, stood. "Is there nothing we can do, Master?" he cried, his voice breaking.

"The Havens!" another voice shouted. "We must flee to Cirdan!"

Elrond held up a hand and silence fell immediately. "Fleeing to the Grey Havens will ensure very little," he said firmly, determined to impress this reality upon them. "The Western lands will quickly be overtaken, if it is not already so. Death awaits any who would chance that journey."

"Death awaits us here, as well!" the young Elf cried, anger inflicted in his tone. "We must take what chances we have! Awaiting our deaths or captivity here cannot be our only option!"

"Peace, young one," Glorfindel said, his voice a low rumble. The Elf's next argument died on his face as he looked upon the golden warrior, but desperation and panic seemed to overcome his sense, and he glared defiantly, though warily back.

"Though I am lord and master of this House," Elrond said loudly, commanding all attention once more, "I will not demand any actions of anyone here. You may do as you wish – I merely give council. I, however, will remain. Yet I will not wait for death here. I and those who remain with me will set up a last resistance, and we will die in battle, and so we will not be forgotten so easily. Our names will be a scourge to the Enemy, even in our defeat."

His gaze was so intense, his aura so powerful, that all were entranced by his words and could not look away, though fear and desperation were clear in their expressions.

"You may do as you will," he said, lowering his voice, allowing his gaze to fall on each of the Elves before him, all of them as children to him. Children he had been blessed with and failed to protect.

At that moment, a searing pain shot up his left arm, starting and spreading from his ring finger. A simultaneous sharp, piercing agony tore through his head, as though someone had driven a long needle through his temple. He gasped and stumbled, still clutching the mantle for support. Voices swarmed around him, and he felt someone's hands on his shoulders, pulling him up and supporting him.

Elrond blinked and looked up, breathing hard as the pain receded slightly, though leaving throbbing aches in their wake. Looking around the room, he saw that most had stood and moved forward, as though all of them wanted to catch him as he fell. Straightening completely, he swept quickly out of the room, unable to keep the tears from rolling down his cheeks.

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**A/N **Sorry this one's so short. I'm having issues with… certain characters. Elrond's fighting me all the way. He wants to be sure it's done right, I just want to get it down, etcetera etcetera etcetera. Blame him, not me. He's being incredibly unhelpful, despite the bloody story is practically all about _him_. Ungrateful elven mutt. Review! More to come….


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

Elrond managed to remain calm as he returned to his study, though he shut the door behind him rather harshly. He sat before the fireplace, and was about to put his head in his hands, when pain flared in his left hand again.

He hissed slightly and sat up, looking at what seemed to be the source of the hurt. Vilya seemed unchanged on his finger, though its presence had grown suddenly foul and sinister, a fact that added fresh pain to his already injured heart.

Knowing what he had to do, he reached out his other hand to remove the ring, but it burned his fingers as they made contact. Before he could react again, a blackness began to creep towards his mind, clouding his vision and slowly encasing his consciousness. Ignoring the pain, he reached for Vilya again with renewed fervor and urgency. But it was as though it had welded onto his finger.

The pain and blackness spread slowly from his hand to his mind, and his senses left him suddenly as he slid out of his chair and onto the hard floor before the fireplace.

_His mind was naked and open before the Dark One. Jubilant, merciless laughter rang in his fëa as cruel fingers peeled back centuries of thoughts and memories, searching for nothing, merely enjoying the pleasure of destroying the Elf-lord piece by piece. For it was torture in its ugliest form – the violation of the mind. _

_Elrond fought the evil presence, but it was feeble and fruitless. There was nothing he could do. They had failed, and this was his fate. Despair seeped into his being like a cold poison as the Voice echoed in his mind._

_"You dare to defy me, Elf? You thought you could succeed! And behold what all your wisdom, all your plans have come to. Naught."_

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The House had dispersed from the Hall of Fire, many weeping, others resolved. Despite what Elrond had said, there was still talk of fleeing West. Arwen had retired to her chambers, looking weary and drawn. Glorfindel had likewise slipped away, his face grave and his shoulders heavy.

Erestor planned to return to his study, to do what, he did not know. There was nothing to do now. There would be no future need for inventory, or diplomatic letters to Mirkwood, or records of important events. Perhaps he would sit and go over the books; that always seemed to calm him. Perhaps he would record the last events Imladris would ever experience. No, Elrond would want to do that himself.

It was just as he was thinking this that he passed Elrond's study. He paused outside the familiar doors, now closed, pondering them. How many times had he himself pushed them open? To give a report, to provide a needed document, to relax after a long day of work, to share in happiness, to be a companion in sorrow. He thought of the others who had walked through those doors: Celebrían, usually bearing a tray of afternoon tea to share with her husband; the twins, to greet their father with sticky kisses when younger, or to ensure him of their safety when older; Arwen, to calm his nerves as her mother had done or to offer her quiet, steady company; Estel, looking for a goodnight hug or dreading a scolding; Glorfindel, with a jovial smile to relieve the cares of the world. No matter who passed through those doors, it was always ultimately for the same reason. They all entered for him. They all sought his wisdom, his strength, his guidance, his presence, for one reason or another. All had come to accept him as a constant, the pillar that upheld them all, ready and willing to offer whatever was needed.

And now they were losing him. In truth, they were all losing each other, but it began with him, for he was their corner stone, at the center of all their lives. It was slow torture and death to watch him fail. It was almost beyond Erestor's comprehension to see him falling, accepting his fate without question, especially if that fate was destruction and death. It did not seem possible. Not for Elrond.

Erestor ran a light hand over the elegant designs in the wood, then, gathering his nerve, pushed the doors open.

At first, he thought the room was empty. The windows were open, a gentle breeze playing with the papers arranged neatly on the desk. Specks of dust floated in the last rays of what light they had left, showing up more than ever on the ancient rows of texts along the wall and in shelves. A recently used wine glass sat atop a nearby table, glittering dully. The room smelled very familiar, like old parchment, herbs, and burnt candles.

Erestor allowed his eyes to sweep the room once, taking everything in, and was about to exit when he caught sight of a corner of black cloth on the floor before the empty grate, partially hidden behind several chairs.

His heart pounding, he approached the hearth, fearing what he would find. When he did find it, his breath caught in his throat, and a wave of shock and nausea almost rendered him unconscious.

Elrond lay on the floor, his eyes wide, staring, and glazed, his hands clutching convulsively at the stone slabs beneath him. He seemed to be struggling to breathe, though he was making no sound. A trickle of blood ran from his mouth and down his chin. As Erestor watched, frozen with horror, the Elf-lord cried out in pain, clutched his head in his hands, and curled in the fetal position, retching.

The hairs on the back of Erestor's neck stood on end, and a scream rose in his throat. He had to bite his tongue, breathing very quickly, to stifle it. It returned again as a cry, and this time, he released it.

"_Glorfindel!_"

His shout sounded high and feeble echoing around the nearly deserted study, disturbing nothing but the air directly in front of him. On the floor, Elrond retched again, more violently this time. Something suddenly snapped in Erestor's mind, and he whirled, his senses returning to him in a flood. Reaching the door and praying Glorfindel wasn't far away, he roared the seneschal's name again.

There were a few brief, panicked seconds in which Erestor feared Glorfindel hadn't heard, but the golden Elf appeared around the corner just as the hallways stopped echoing his name. His face was slack and gray, but worried at the tone in Erestor's voice.

"What is it?" he asked, approaching quickly. "Please do not shout, Erestor. We are already tense eno- what is wrong?" He suddenly seemed to notice Erestor's pallor and the way the advisor's hands shook.

"Elrond," Erestor rasped, unable to say more.

Glorfindel read the fear in his friend's eyes, however, and brushed past him and into the study, a new hardened purpose in his face. He found Elrond almost immediately and crouched beside him, afraid to touch his lord, who was so clearly in pain, when he could not identify what was wrong. Elrond did not seem to recognize him, or even notice him.

Erestor appeared behind him. "I found him like this," he whispered, guilt, fear, and agonized sorrow in his voice.

Glorfindel put a tentative hand to Elrond's brow. The Elf gasped and cringed away from the touch. He was sweaty and unnaturally warm, quickly approaching feverishness. Glorfindel removed his hand from his lord's brow and instead reached for Elrond's own hand, intending to attempt to call the Elf back to them. As soon as he touched it, however, a burning pain lanced up his arm.

An image of sudden, all-consuming darkness clouded his vision, but was quickly obscured by a great, flaming eye, bearing down on him. There seemed to be an evil wind about him, sucking him in and down, snatching away his breath. A cruel laughter rang in his ears, sending chills down his spine and causing his fëa to recoil and shrink away. Despair flooded his mind, and his fëa cried out in pain and anguish, writhing to escape from the darkness that was swallowing it.

A shout was dying on his lips when he released Elrond's hand, and he fell backwards, scrambling away from the Elf-lord and the darkness that was palpable around him. Glorfindel could feel it now. Trembling violently, he jumped when he felt Erestor's hand on his shoulder.

"What happened?" the advisor asked urgently. "Glorfindel?"

But the Gondolindrim was not listening. His eyes had fallen on the hand he had grasped moments before, and found Vilya. The darkness that had so nearly consumed him was coming from it, a sinister and evil pulsation that was making his fëa quail. It had reached out for him as soon as it had realized his presence, and attempted to destroy him. He had been able to escape. Elrond could not. Elrond was trapped inside the darkness and had little to no means of fighting it. Vilya and its new Master were destroying him.

Glorfindel would not let them.

The power and light vested in him since his rebirth flared in a sudden outpouring of rage, sending thrumming energy racing through his body. With a snarl, he lunged forward and seized Elrond's hand again, prepared this time.

Again, the darkness and despair attempted to surround him, but his fury ignited all of his power, and it rose around him like flames, beating back the Enemy and his devices.

_Thou shalt not have him!_ he roared, heightening the light until the Darkness flinched away. _Not whilst I draw breath!_

_Then thou shalt draw thy last._ The answer came as a roll of thunder, pervading the Darkness and pushing him backwards.

Fresh wrath burned forth from Glorfindel's fëa, and the power of it thrust back the Enemy for a second time.

_Already have I done so,_ he snarled, _and returned!_ _I am both living and dead. I walk the Seen and the Unseen. As Fingolfin once challenged thy Master, so now I challenge thee! Come now, and face thy doom, ye damned one!_

There was a growl of fury, but Glorfindel's rage was now so potent that the Dark One hesitated, sensing that here was an enemy to be reckoned with when revealed in his wrath.

_Release him, _Glorfindel commanded. The darkness ebbed slightly. His anger continued to grow, and, rather than tiring, the length of the battle seemed only to fuel him. Light blazed around him like a furnace. _Release him!_

_There is no hope,_ the thunder replied. _All shall fall to the Darkness._

_I will fight thee 'till Namo himself comes to take me, should you keep him!_ Glorfindel bellowed.

_Fight as you will, Eldar,_ it said sinisterly. _I will have him in the end._

There was a final, rumbling snarl from the Darkness before it receded enough for Glorfindel to move freely. As soon as it did so, the fëa it had been devouring appeared, weak and gray, its light dim. The golden Elf moved forward immediately and swept it into the circle of warmth and light, holding the spirit that was as a brother to him within the orb of safety, praying he was not too late.

Blazing a trail through the retreating Darkness, Glorfindel quickly returned to the material world, bearing his lord's fëa with him.

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**A/N **I had the phrase "elf-lord revealed in his wrath" whirling around in my head during that whole last scene. I really do love the Elf-lords, despite all I put them through…. Thanks to the muses for being so cooperative during this chapter, especially Elrond. Hopefully the next one will be up soon. Review, please!


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four_

Elrond surfaced slowly, reaching feebly for the pale light that hovered so close, and yet so far away. A sort of gray fog surrounded him, acting as a cushion between him and the darkness that waited on the outskirts of where the light touched to ensnare him again as soon as he weakened. His mind and fëa were weary, as though having struggled long and hard for a losing battle.

_Come, Elrond._

The voice was commanding, but gentle, calling him towards the light, encouraging him to reach a little further, a little harder. He did, with what strength he still possessed, and the light brightened as he drew closer, calling him again, allowing him to rest only when he floated just beneath the surface. When he could no longer struggle, when he had reached his limits, the warmth of the light enveloped him and held him, keeping him from sinking back into the depths of the grayness.

He did not know for how long he relaxed in the warmth of the golden light, feeling safe and trusting in the strangely familiar embrace. When the fellow fëa roused him again, however, he found that he had the strength to break the surface of the bleak mist.

His first breath after escape was deep and fresh, as though a heavy weight had been pressing on his chest for far too long. He concentrated solely on breathing, letting the air slowly awaken his mind and body. His fëa had been roused, now it was his body's turn.

"Elrond."

The voice was the same that had called him in the fog, and he responded willingly, this time opening his eyes. It took a moment for them to focus. When they did, at first he saw only a shadowy ceiling. His ceiling. As he became aware of the rest of his body, he realized he was lying in a bed and was covered with heavy blankets. The fingers of his right hand gripped the sheets experimentally, as though to ensure they were real. His left hand, however, was held fast by something. He turned his head slowly to look.

Glorfindel was clasping Elrond's hand with both of his, a fierceness in his grip that had never been directed towards his liege before. An unearthly golden light hovered around the ancient warrior, and he seemed more powerful and more lordly than he ever had before. His blue eyes blazed, and his smile was triumphant when Elrond finally met his gaze.

"Welcome back, mellon nin," he murmured, stroking the back of Elrond's hand with his thumbs.

Elrond's throat did not want to work. He simply stared at Glorfindel, understanding overpowering his mind. This was the golden light that had found him, had fought the Darkness for him, and had kept it at bay for all this time. He gripped Glorfindel's hand in silent gratitude, his jaw set with the words he could not say.

The golden Elf's smile widened, and he looked away from Elrond for a moment to speak to someone on the other side of the bed. There was a rustle of robes as that someone stood. Glorfindel turned back to Elrond, renewing the severity of his grip. It was then that the lord of Imladris noticed how heavily the seneschal was breathing and the few beads of sweat that trickled down his face. He instinctively tried to remove his hand from its captor, but Glorfindel would not allow it.

"I will hold you here until you have enough strength to sustain yourself," he said quietly, the strain that was evident by the way his jaw was clenched and his temple throbbed masked by the calmness in his voice.

Fresh comprehension dawned on Elrond, and he nodded reluctantly. Glorfindel was, for now, his lifeline, keeping him from sinking back into the Darkness. The ancient warrior would hold him above the Darkness until Elrond could support himself.

At that moment, Erestor appeared beside Glorfindel, proffering a flask of miruvor. There was an ill-concealed fear in his eyes as he watched Elrond, who attempted to smile comfortingly before the miruvor was pressed to his lips. He drank eagerly, feeling the warmth and energy returning to his limbs. The flask removed, he struggled to sit up, aided gently by Erestor, while Glorfindel still clasped his hand.

He looked around the room, taking in the familiarity of his bedchambers and feeling reassured.

"What happened?" he asked lamely. His voice was a thin rasp, as though his throat had long ago been worn out.

Erestor and Glorfindel glanced at each other.

"You know better than we, mellon," Erestor said calmly.

Indeed he did, though he remembered little clearly. It was more a sense, a deeper knowledge and acceptance that what he had feared had come to pass.

"How long have I been unconscious?" was his next question.

Sadness crept into Erestor's eyes, and Elrond could tell he had been dreading this question. "Almost four full days," he said quietly.

Elrond closed his eyes and leaned his head against the headboard. Four days. So much could happen in that time, so much could be lost….

"Tell me," he commanded, eyes still closed.

"We have felt the darkness closing in about us," Erestor began slowly, grinding out his report determinedly. "It has taken advantage of your… of your absence. The defenses are weakened, and we are all afraid. Some-" he paused for a moment, his voice wavering. "A party of twenty left a day ago for the Havens."

Elrond's jaw tightened. They were racing to their dooms, and he had been unable to do anything. He had warned them, but it had not been enough. But their fate would have been the same had they stayed….

"There was nothing you could have done," Glorfindel whispered. "Their minds were set."

"The fools," he growled.

"You cannot blame them for clinging to hope," Erestor began. "For wanting to hope…"

"Hope for what?" Elrond snapped suddenly, his anger flaring unexpectedly. "Hope for an easier death, perhaps? Something quick and painless? I doubt they will get that much."

Erestor watched him sorrowfully, his expression unchanged by the venom in Elrond's voice.

His outburst commenced, the Elf-lord leaned against the headboard, unanticipated weariness taking him, accompanied by renewed frustration. How weak he was!

"Where is Arwen?" he asked quietly, making a valiant attempt to calm the fury roaring inside him.

"Resting," Erestor said, equally softly. "She sat with you without reprieve for three days and nights."

"Good," he sighed, glad to know that, for now, she was safe and well. "Is she-"

"She stands firm," Erestor stated expressionlessly, "and is determined to see you recovered."

"Which is why you must rest now," Glorfindel said, smiling wearily.

Elrond wanted to protest, but their rebuffs came to mind even before they were spoken. If he were to do anything useful, anything to help the House, he would need his strength. They would all need his strength.

Instead, he sighed in frustrated acceptance, and lowered himself onto the pillows. Sleep overcame him immediately.

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It seemed to Elrond that he recovered infuriatingly slowly, though Arwen repeatedly reminded him that the further he pushed himself towards convalescence, the longer it would take.

She had not left his side since she had returned from her rest, close to tears of relief at seeing him conscious, though they all knew that consciousness was little comfort. Glorfindel had not yet released his hold on Elrond's fëa, and though this was exceedingly helpful in restoring his strength, Elrond grew increasingly worried for the wellbeing of the golden warrior. Arwen and Erestor offered what strength they could when they could, but often the disruption of allowing another's aid was too dangerous, and the full weight of battling the darkness was left on Glorfindel's shoulders.

It came as a relief of some form to both of them when the bond was finally broken.

It was during a period of unconsciousness when their fëar were clear and aware. They stood together in the ring of golden light, though it had lost some of its brilliance and brightness. Elrond looked at Glorfindel; the warrior's fëa was grim and worn. It was time.

Glorfindel sensed his lord's decision and nodded, stepping away, and Elrond could discern the worry laced into the seneschal's deep sigh of release. This did not phase him. Gathering his strength, he stepped completely out of the rim of Glorfindel's light, his own fëa immediately raising strong walls of defense against the darkness which had advanced as soon as he had abandoned the safety of the golden orb.

Glorfindel returned to consciousness and, breathing heavily, looked down upon the face of his lord, afraid of what he might see. Deep lines had been etched into Elrond's expression, and a thunderous frown now darkened his brow. Glorfindel's heart cried out for him to go to his friend's aid, but he refrained. This was a battle Elrond alone could fight.

Leaning back in his chair for the first time in days, he slowly and gently pried his hands from Elrond's grip and flexed his fingers, then winced. Spreading them wide, he saw the long, dark burns that scarred his palms. The doing of Vilya.

Someone took his hands in theirs and turned them away from the stiff figure on the bed, dipping them into a bowl of warm water which was now resting in his lap. Glancing up, he saw Erestor, focused intently on the task before him, massaging the soreness out of his hands and bathing them gently, rubbing an ointment for burns into the wounds, and finally wrapping them in swathes of soft, soothing linen. Before he could free the strangling words of inexpressible gratitude from his throat, a flask of miruvor was forced upon him, and he swallowed obediently. He was immediately aware of the potent something that had been put in the drink, for his eyelids became comfortably heavy and his breathing slowed.

Erestor took the bowl of water and moved to a table at the side of the room. Another pair of tender hands took Glorfindel's arms, lifted him out of the chair, and guided him to the door. They were moving down the hallway, in the direction of his quarters, then they were through the doors, and he was being forced into his dressing room. A fresh pair of leggings and a loose tunic awaited his clumsy, weary hands. When he had undressed and dressed again, the same gentle person as before helped him to his bed chamber. He sat down on his bed with a bottomless sigh, and took Arwen's hands in his.

She sat beside him, rubbing his hands, resting her head on his shoulder. He put his arms around her as he had done when she was small and rocked her slowly. They wept.

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**A/N** Forgive another short chapter. The plot is being difficult. By the way, I can see all of you reading this. If you have accounts, do me a favor and review. I seriously debated whether to post this story at all, since it's so AU, and there's a lot more to it than you know, so I desperately need people to tell me what they think, good and bad. If I don't get enough reviews, I may take it down. I'M WARNING YOU NOW. I need reviews, or this may become another one of the dusty files only friends and electrons see. _I_ don't want that, and _you_ don't want that, so _**review**_


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five_

**A/N** **Warning** for this chapter: **disturbing images and mentalities. **Sorry it's taken me so long to get back. The next chapter should be up soon.

The House had changed.

It was evident in every aspect of life. The peaceful, soothing, healing atmosphere had vanished as though it had never existed, to be replaced with one charged with anticipation, fear, and the overwhelmingly hopeless desire to live. The eyes of the inhabitants were sharp and feral, hardened by the primeval instincts of those hunted and cornered. The sky was ever dark, and an evil thunder often caused the mighty foundations of stone to tremble. The cries of Orcs, wargs, and other foul beasts could be heard in the pitch blackness of night, watching and waiting at the boundaries, anticipating their master's command with bloodthirsty eagerness. The shriek of a Nazgûl was ever ringing in the ears and hearts of those who remained to await their doom.

Preparations had been made for the final battle. The beautiful, flowing robes of peacetimes had been stored away with loving and bittersweet care. Now all wore the garb of war, and no one was to be found lacking in a weapon at any time. They padded the halls stealthily, peering left and right and listening for danger at their backs. Speech was kept to a minimum, and voices were low and grave when used. The armories had been expanded and stocked to the extent of their abilities, though it gave them little hope. Few were trained in the arts of combat in these times of weariness – they had ached only for the sea, not for the glory of their forefathers.

And yet, amidst the peril and terror they walked in, a single though brought them, neither hope, nor consolation, but something akin to understanding and acceptance. Perhaps, if they fought, their fëar would be freed quickly, and would flee to Mandos without the strife of slavery and torture they would otherwise endure. Then, surely, they would be at peace, nearer to their hearts' home than ever before.

This thought was in every mind as the days darkened and wore on.

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The warrior paced the quarters anxiously, hands clasped tightly behind his back, cloak worn to keep the piercing cold at bay whispering along the floor and around his feet. His face was worn and lined, a dark mask of one lost in thought and weighed down by many burdens. Dark silver eyes repeatedly glanced out the window to the darkness that gathered above, and agony filtered through the mask briefly before he turned back to his own thoughts.

The room was cold and bare. The shelves that had once held precious books and works of beauty were vacant, their charges packed away pointlessly. It had clearly once belonged to a lord of great prestige, knowledge, and power, but the Elf that paced there now was a soldier, his hands molded to the sole purpose of wielding a deadly blade, his thoughts far from lore. His garb was that of his craft as well: stiff leather boots which laced up to his knees, trousers, a black tunic covered by a second of finest chain mail, and a long leather jerkin, simply embroidered, over it all. His hair, black as the night that gathered around his home, was pulled back and away from his nobly sculpted face in a tight warrior's braid. An occupied scabbard hung at the well-worn belt, bumping lightly against its owner's leg as he walked.

The warrior stopped at his window, long-fingered hands gripping the sill as he gazed outwards, as though waiting. Though it should have been springtime, the grass was gray and dead, the trees leafless. It was utterly still, like the eye of a storm.

"Lord Elrond."

The warrior turned to the messenger standing at the door.

"Lord Erestor would like to remind you that there are still several things needed from your study," the messenger said clearly, shoulders erect and arms stiff at his side.

The piercing gaze surveyed the messenger for a moment. He was young – young and proud. Unprepared to die.

"Thank you," Elrond said quietly, and dismissed the boy.

With one last look out onto the grounds, he turned and exited his antechamber, closing the door behind him, knowing it would be for the last time. But he would suffer greater losses than his belongings in the days to come.

He strode purposefully from the family wing, heading towards the library and the series of rooms that had been converted to studies which clustered around it. That side of Imladris had been deserted for weeks. No one had any need to be there. He himself had not been in his study for at least a fortnight.

He stopped at the familiar doors and pushed them open. The study was suddenly as alien to him as the bottom of the Sundering Sea, as though it was out of a previous lifetime beyond the reaches of the Darkness. It seemed to echo still with the laughter of those who had once entered there, mocking him.

Ignoring the nostalgia, he clenched his jaw and moved to the rows of bookshelves. He knew what Erestor would want, though why was beyond him. Sentimentality, perhaps. A strange, hysterical laugh rose in his throat and was strangled there.

The artifacts and texts finally assembled on the desk, he stood before them, feeling strangely unable to move. He wanted time to stop, halt here, before they slipped into the grasp of the Darkness. As he stood, his eyes were slowly, undeniably dragged to the window, desperate for something other than desolation and hopelessness. All he saw were dead trees, shrouded in gloom, and…

He moved closer to the window, forgetting his task. There was something in the trees. It took a moment for his vision, Elven though it was, to cut through the shadows. His hands tightened suddenly on the sill, as they had mere minutes before in his own chambers, though this time the knuckles turned white, as had his face.

There were corpses in the trees.

He could see them now. They hung there, suspended from the branches by the cruel stakes that had been driven through their bodies. All were headless and naked. Their limbs hung limp, some barely connected to their torsos, and words and symbols of the black speech had been carved and painted onto the mauled flesh. They were clearly Elven bodies, and there were nineteen. He knew immediately who was missing.

Erestor and Glorfindel had waited until he was able to walk again to inform him that Bilbo had departed with the group. He had not believed them at first, out of the pure desire to negate what he had heard. But he himself had gone to the old Hobbit's room, and there found a letter addressed to him. He remembered it well, as though it had been branded into his memory.

_My Dear Elf and Friend,_

_I know what you will think when you find I have gone. Forgive my haste, and my cowardice. I knew that if I had waited to speak with you, one, the party would have already departed, and two, you would have attempted to convince me to stay. I am sure you have heard it before, but you can be very persuasive when you want to be._

_First and foremost, I feel I should thank you for all the years you put up with an old thing like me. It was most appreciated, and – I will be honest with you – an immense relief to get away from the rumors of insanity. I am old, but quite in my head, thank you. _

_Now that I have gotten the formalities out of the way, I will tell you that, more precious to me even than your gracious care and acceptance of my odd presence was your friendship. I realize now that I am one of the fair few who were blessed enough to know you as more than the distant and renowned Lord Elrond. Perhaps I did not know you as well as I may think (this is probably true, and goes both ways. Hobbits and Elves are very different, you know), but I feel honored to have been able to have so many wonderful conversations and discussions with you. Thank you for suffering through them, as well as my many songs, particularly my feeble attempt at a Lay of Eärendil. Tell Lindir he, too, was most helpful, and he may take full credit for all my compositions._

_Lastly, I will thank you for Frodo's life. He is dearer to me than maybe even you can imagine, and I cannot bear to think what has happened to him because of me, which is, perhaps, why I am going away. _

_Do not fear that I am being fooled; I know that we will not reach the Havens, but I simply could not stand waiting idly. Though I do not know you as well as I would like to think, as I said before, I did learn something of you, o Elf. I forbid you to twist yourself into a flurry of worry and guilt over me, or anyone else. I made this choice in full knowledge of what it implied, as did we all, and no matter what you might think, you would not have changed my mind._

_Again, forgive me for leaving this letter. I wish with all my heart that I had been able to speak with you one last time. I did come to bid you farewell, but you would not remember. _

_Thank you, mellon, for everything you have done. May you find peace, wherever your fëa may flee. Farewell. _

_Bilbo Baggins_

Elrond stared out the window, thinking of Bilbo's words, and thinking of where the Hobbit must be at that moment. It was too much.

He turned so suddenly he ran into the desk, knocking drawers open. Bile rose in his throat, burning his mouth. The heads of the bodies outside had been crammed into his desk, their wide, glassy eyes staring into his, pleading with him, horror and anguish frozen in their expressions. His breath quickening, he suddenly noticed the words scrawled and burned onto his desk: all in the Black Speech, laughing at him and describing his death.

He ran from the room, stumbling as he ripped open his door and tore down the hallway. He could feel the Darkness laughing in his ears, chasing him, licking at his heels.

_Run faster, Eldar. _

He had never known he could run like this. He didn't even know where he was going; he simply trusted his feet to take him somewhere… away.

He collapsed, gasping and heaving, in the room in which Erestor was storing precious objects away. He vaguely registered hearing the advisor calling his name, but he doubled over and vomited violently, arms wrapped around his stomach, the pressure building in his head.

There was shouting. Strong arms pulled him up and away from the floor, then drew him into a comforting embrace. He lay limp in Erestor's hold, his head resting against his friend's chest, still struggling to breath.

"Erestor," he heaved. "Go to my study… there… just go…"

He couldn't say any more. The vision of lifeless eyes and severed necks was plastered before his eyes. He wanted to scream, to give in to the insanity that was pumping through him like a delicious, seductive drug. He wanted to die. By Eru, let it end!

He felt Erestor stand slowly, giving him over to the support of the hard floor and the small desk. Erestor understood.

He lay there, wracked with a fit of coughing and, after a time, sobs so forceful he retched again. He curled into the fetal position, the poison agony seeping into him, entering through his mind, until he felt it in his chest and lungs: a constricting, noxious blackness that consumed everything in him. If he had vomited again, he would have vomited that inky, liquid, suffocating blackness. Nothing was worth this… nothing….

_NO!_

He never knew if he screamed the word out loud, but it didn't matter. He lashed out furiously, kicking himself away from the desk, clambering to stand. He hit the opposite wall and slid down it slowly, attempting to breathe, but he was drowning. Turning, he leaned his forehead and cheek against the cool stone, clenching his fist against it and punching it feebly.

He stayed like that until the door opened again, possibly years later. Erestor was standing over him, holding out his hand. Elrond took it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, still breathing heavily. His hands were shaking, and there were beads of sweat running into his eyes. For a moment, he felt wild, rabid, and thought he might attack the Elf before him, kill him, do something to satiate the pain.

He didn't. Instead, he seized Erestor's shoulders and looked him in the eye.

"I. Am. Going. Insane," he said firmly, irrevocably. "You know it. We both know it. Swear to me that you will get Arwen out. When the end comes, you get her out. She will not see. Get her out. Swear."

"I swear," Erestor said quietly, his eyes locked with Elrond's.

"Tell Glorfindel," he said, releasing the advisor and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "He will have to swear as well. You get her out. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

Elrond searched his face once, somehow mistrusting Erestor's set expression. He mistrusted everything now – including himself.

He nodded finally, then whirled, and left the room.

**A/N** My apologies about Bilbo. Thanks to AFI's song "Prelude 12/21," or "Lay Me to Sleep." It finally got my muse going for this chapter. Don't worry – the next chapter will make more sense. Let me know if you think this chapter warranted the warning or not.


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter Six_

**A/N** Sorry it's taken so long, folks! Life happens. Warning: brief, minor language.

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"We know now that their reach extends within our boundaries," Erestor said, pacing slowly, one finger tracing his mouth. "They have the upper hand. They are merely toying with us now."

Glorfindel was sitting with his head in his hands, his expression hidden from Erestor. "How far within our boundaries?" he asked dully.

"You saw the writing on the desk, and the... They could infiltrate Imladris now, if they so chose."

"How did they get in?" Glorfindel breathed, more to himself than to his companion.

"Easily," Erestor growled. "Our key defense has fallen, and we have not the strength to send out border patrols. But the true attack began from the inside. Imladris is crumbling from within."

Glorfindel did not reply.

"You doubt my words?"

"No," he said slowly, "but if Vilya were destroyed, could we not regain some power-"

"And then what?" Erestor snapped harshly. "They would outwait us. There is no path now to the sea, and Vilya cannot be destroyed without the destruction of its bearer. It is not even within our power to destroy it alone."

The Gondolindrim remained silent, though he lifted his head from his hands and propped his chin on a tightly clenched fist, staring at the wall. "He will ask us to do it," he said finally.

"He would, if he were still in his right mind," Erestor said quietly. "The last sane word I had from him was to make me – and you – swear to remove Arwen from Imladris when the time came."

"I think there is still something left – buried, perhaps, but it is there."

"The contrast has caused him to go insane. He and Vilya were and are one, but Vilya has now become everything he has ever striven against, and it is within him. He _himself_ is the Enemy, and he knows it."

"Yet he still plans to fight the Enemy when his horde comes."

"Does he?" Erestor questioned sharply. "When was the last time he gave an order? When was the last time he did anything but prowl these halls or barricade himself in an isolated room? He is too occupied with controlling himself, with keeping himself from destroying Imladris with his own two hands."

"And so you admit there is still something in him willing to fight."

"I never said there was not, but it is fading quickly. What goodness and wisdom can remain amidst madness? Sauron will take his prize all too soon, and what will we do then?"

"What do you suggest?"

Erestor sat heavily, looking and feeling older and wearier than he ever had before in his long life. "I… have neither the courage nor the strength to even say what must be done. I could not do it. And once he has entered into Sauron's power, I believe he would be a foe far beyond us."

Glorfindel sighed and ran a hand over his face. "Yet, I still think, before the end, whatever is left of him will ask one of us to do it. Would you deny him his last request?"

"He is insane!" Erestor howled, pounding the arm of his chair with his fist and looking agonized. "He would not know what he was asking!"

"He would," Glorfindel said softly. "Part of him would want us to end it. It would be mercy."

"He would call it cowardice," Erestor snarled. "He knew his fate. The thought of escape never crossed his mind! He was ready. He understood."

"But what of those he would harm should he not be stopped?"

"We cannot do it while even the slightest fragment of his mind remains free," Erestor said in a low, tormented moan, his head dropping to his hands.

"Perhaps you are right, mellon," Glorfindel said sadly. "I see nothing clearly anymore."

"Perhaps I am wrong," Erestor murmured to the floor.

"But shall we leave our ultimate question unanswered?" Glorfindel muttered, almost frustratedly. "What shall we do with him if he falls to the Enemy before Imladris is taken?"

"Then he will no longer be Elrond," Erestor said after a long pause, his voice barely audible. "And then we will do what we must, if we can."

"Aye."

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Glorfindel sat hunched over the map, one hand in his hair, the other tracing a carefully planned route moving west. The candles flickered around him, struggling to hold their own against the darkness that was threatening to smother them.

Erestor had left the study hours ago, but he had remained, determined not to be completely blind when at least one of them fled with Arwen. He planned for Erestor to go, as he was the one who had sworn to Elrond. What he, Glorfindel, would do if Elrond came to him personally for his oath, he didn't know, but it seemed cruel and craven for them both to abandon Imladris and its people. But perhaps they would have no choice, and they would not be the only ones fleeing.

He sighed and ran his hand through his golden mane for the hundredth time that night. He didn't even know if it _was_ night.

Erestor had argued that they should both go, and in the occasion one of them was killed, the other would be able to go on with Arwen. He saw the sense in this, but also thought it was likely all three of them would be killed, or worse.

He had not told Erestor, but if he was honest with himself, he wished to remain. It was not that he explicitly wanted to die, but fleeing his burned and demolished home was far too reminiscent of Gondolin. He would much prefer to stay this time, and die protecting. His fëa was ready; he was weary. The sea had been calling him for many years now, not strongly enough for him to forsake his family and dwelling place whose protection had been placed in his care, but enough to make him restless, and, when the time came, eager for release.

He looked up as one of the little flames flickered and shrank momentarily. The previous night rose in his memory, like some haunting spirit that whispered and beckoned to him. He and Erestor had endured the shadows and gloom to retrieve the bodies amidst the trees. The whole while, he had thought that they would surely be killed; the jeers of Orcs and the growls of wolves echoed at them from mere yards away. Miraculously, they had succeeded – or had been allowed to succeed – and had quickly burned the corpses on a communal funeral pyre; the fire, like the candle before him now, had seemed afraid of the darkness which had pressed in on them from all sides, threatening and stifling. It was as reverent a service as they could give their fallen brethren. The severed heads had likewise been recovered and dealt with. The recollection filled him with a cold, dead chill, like a deathly mantle. Though he mourned the passing and the sufferings of those who had braved the road to the Havens, he envied them. They had evaded the lot he deemed worse.

There was a sudden knock at the door, soft but firm.

"Enter," he said, straightening and attempting to hide the heaviness in his voice.

The door opened, and Elrond slipped silently inside and shut it behind him, his face calm and his demeanor collected, if stern. Glorfindel stiffened imperceptibly as he heard the tiniest click of a key turning in a lock.

"My lord," he said, standing respectfully and giving no sign of his concern. "How may I be of service?"

Elrond's composure vanished as what was left of his free self struggled to the surface; Glorfindel could see the battle in his eyes. Wordlessly, he pulled his still-sheathed sword from beneath his cloak, and proffered the hilt to his advisor.

Glorfindel stared at it, stunned and numb despite his previous predictions. He felt suddenly immobilized.

"Please, Glorfindel."  
Elrond's words were a gentle rasp, echoing from the depths of his dying soul. Glorfindel could sense his desperation as it hung in the air like a mist, causing the bond of friendship between himself and his liege to vibrate and tense. Elrond was asking this of him as a friend and brother, and from the equivalent of his death bed.

_Please, Glorfindel. Spare me the pain. Spare others the pain._

"I cannot while a part of you still lives," he said finally, his eyes moving slowly from the sword to the silver gaze. "You know this. I was sent to you in order to protect and guide the line I died to save. I cannot and will not break my promise now."

Elrond's eyes flickered once with sorrow and understanding, which turned alarmingly rapidly to anger, and finally to smug satisfaction.

"No, of course you would not, even if it was a direct order," he said, returning the weapon to his belt, his voice oddly cool and collected.

"I have ever been subject to you word, lord," Glorfindel replied emotionlessly.

"Yes, until you disagree with me. What kind of loyalty is that, Glorfindel, I ask you?" A cruel smile curled Elrond's lip when the commander of his defenses did not reply. "And what if I was to force my will upon you? Would you then obey your lord's command?" He drew his blade.

Glorfindel held his ground, though the point of Elrond's sword was inches from his throat. "I would obey my lord's command even if it was to throw myself into the sea," he said quietly. "But his command has passed out of Arda, never to be heard nor obeyed by me until the world is changed."

Elrond's face twisted into a hideous snarl, and he lunged, only to be forced back by Glorfindel's own sword, now gleaming in his hand. They circled slowly, a bloody light playing in the peredhel's eyes as he prowled around his prey, waiting for his chance. Their blades clashed again, and Glorfindel moved back, forcing thoughts of the one whom he was fighting deep into his mind. It was clear what Elrond's intention was by his blows, and he could only be grateful that he knew his opponent's style well. The thought was almost comical.

Elrond feinted left, and Glorfindel managed to block the oncoming attack just before he found himself crashing into and toppling over his desk. The blow had been far more powerful than anything Elrond could normally have achieved, strong as he was. Standing and shaking off the dizziness, he moved away from the wreckage to face his enemy again. A river of blood was trickling into his eye, and he vaguely remembered his head connecting with the wall briefly as the desk had collapsed.

The metal of the two swords danced before his eyes as they clashed once, twice, meeting in an endless and fatal dance as they whirled around the room, one combatant aiming to subdue, the other to kill. The candles had been snuffed on the cold stone floor when the desk had capsized, and they now fought in the dark, dependant on their enhanced senses to guide them. Elrond's blows jarred Glorfindel's arms as he advanced, slowly and steadily beating the Gondolindrim into submission. Being bested in a test of combative skills was a circumstance unknown to Glorfindel, and it took him a moment and a sharp slash at his arm for him to remember – or realize – that his opponent was no longer a mere Elf.

He grimaced as he was forced backwards again, and suddenly met an unyielding and unforeseen wall of stone. Elrond stood before him, raising his arm for the deciding blow, face alight with his victory, soon to be one of many.

_I never thought it would end like this_, was Glorfindel's only thought as he darted to the side and threw himself at his liege and the blade meant for his stomach. It tore through the side of his tunic, but he could not tell if it had made its way through the chain mail as he tackled Elrond with all his strength. His sword forgotten behind him, he sent them both crashing to the floor. They were struggling before they had stopped skidding, Glorfindel doing his best to both hold Elrond down and keep his sword well away, and Elrond nearly succeeding in throwing Glorfindel off and running him through.

One of his knees pinned Elrond's left elbow to the floor and the other was sunk deep into his stomach as both of Glorfindel's hands grappled with the peredhel's sword arm. Elrond could no longer maneuver it well enough to cause any serious injuries, but Glorfindel received several gashes in his shoulder all the same as he fought to keep the upper hand. It was with considerable struggle and a sick, swooping feeling in his stomach that he finally wrested Elrond's weapon from him and smashed the hilt into its master's head.

Elrond's body went limp. Breathing heavily, Glorfindel let the sword clatter to the floor with disgust and stood, shoulders stooped. He raised a hand gingerly to his lacerated shoulder, but the damage did not seem to be too terrible; the situation was the same with his side: the sword had not gotten through the chain mail.

Looking down at the sprawled form below him, he sighed heavily, and his mind refused to register. It was too late now. What would he tell Imladris? Arwen? As he gazed at his life-long friend's face, he felt tears of anguish rising in his throat and causing his eyes to sting. The realization that Elrond had just attempted to kill him was beyond his comprehension; he looked away.

Bending, he pulled Elrond's arm around his neck and hoisted the Elf-lord off the floor, then made his way towards the door, pulling his key from his pocket. He would need to find Erestor, tell him what had happened….

And as though his thoughts had somehow summoned him, Erestor was there and was supporting Elrond from the other side, though Glorfindel was leading. The advisor did not question as the ancient warrior led them down into the deepest corners of their haven – taking a way now unused so they would not be seen – to rooms largely untouched for nearly an age, finally stopping at a heavy wooden door reinforced with large metal bars.

They lowered Elrond to the ground on the far side of the room, the door safely closed behind them. Numb to what they were doing, both advisors searched in the darkness for a few silent seconds before bringing the manacles to the body's wrists and ankles. The first shackle had only just closed, however, when Elrond awoke suddenly.

There was a cry, the crack of a skull making contact with stone, and gasping, choking noises as Elrond knocked Erestor to the floor and wrapped a thick chain around his neck, pulling sharply.

"_No!_"

Glorfindel dove, shoving Elrond away, but the demon merely laughed and kept his hold on the chains. Erestor's struggles grew less and less vigorous as Glorfindel beat Elrond with everything he had, striking him across the face until the triumphant features were streaked with blood. Desperate, he seized a chain and flung it around Elrond's own neck, tugging viciously as he felt nauseous with the irony of the situation.

Elrond finally release the chains in light of his own peril, his hands rising to fumble at his throat. Glorfindel flung him backwards and, with some effort, clamped the other three manacles around his limbs, despite the fresh struggling.

As soon as Elrond was secured, Glorfindel staggered away and collapsed beside Erestor's unmoving body.

"No!" he screamed again, grasping the Elf's shoulders and shaking him. "No, damn it, no!" He slapped Erestor's face, then put his hands on his chest and shoved hard. Nothing happened. "No no no no NO! Damn it, you bastard, _breathe!_" He put his mouth to Erestor's and blew hard, then punched his chest again. "No! Erestor, _no!_"

There was a sudden, choking cough, a gasp, and retching as Erestor stirred and turned over. Blood spattered the floor as he coughed violently, propped up on one elbow. Glorfindel held his shoulders firmly, a dry sob escaping his lips as Erestor fell backwards into his hold, shuddering, his breathing ragged.

The Balrog-slayer's gaze was finally drawn to Elrond, who was watching Erestor intently, a cruel smile on his face, bloodlust and regret in his eyes, though it was clear that his only regret was that Erestor was still alive. The gore on his face and hands enhanced the impression. Glorfindel watched him for a moment, then looked away, sickened.

He pulled Erestor to his feet carefully, but once standing, the advisor straightened his shoulders and smoothed his tunic, apparently able to support himself. He was not looking at Glorfindel, and his back was to Elrond.

Glancing one last time at the Elf still snarling behind him, Glorfindel turned to the door.

"If not today, tomorrow, Erestor," Elrond hissed.

Erestor's head turned a fraction of a degree, as though he intended to look over his shoulder, but he stopped himself, though he did not move. Glorfindel put a hand on his shoulder, and they moved as one to the door, closing it behind them and locking it.

"Are you alright?" Glorfindel asked as they walked swiftly down the corridor, feeling it was a rather idiotic question.

"Yes." Erestor's voice sounded as though it had been torn to shreds. His lips were still stained with blood. He seemed to realize this, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "What happened?"

"He came to me, and asked me to kill him. I refused, and he attacked me."

"Where is Arwen?"

"I do not know."

"We must speak with her now."  
"I know. Erestor, you are not alright. Please, the luxury of secrets is no longer ours."

Erestor continued his strong, hurried stride, but his face was suddenly riddled with sorrow. "He truly wished to kill me. He was enjoying watching me die. It is a hard emotion to see in the eyes of one of your greatest friends."

"Aye," Glorfindel whispered. "But you must remember, it was not Elrond who wished you pain and death."

"Yes."

They walked in silence until they reached Arwen's chambers. Glorfindel knocked, and the door opened immediately to reveal Arwen, fully clothed and alert. Her piercing gaze met his, and he knew that his message was shown in his eyes. Her jaw clenched and her knuckles whitened on her door handle, but she remained steady.

"You are hurt," she murmured, her eyes on Glorfindel's shoulder. He did not reply, and she turned to Erestor. She grimaced when she saw his neck, then reached out and took his hand, leading him inside and motioning for Glorfindel to follow.

"Sit," she ordered, forcing Erestor onto the couch, but the command was also directed towards Glorfindel; he could hear it in her voice. He sat slowly, wearily. It seemed his very bones ached.

Arwen came back moments later with a warm cloth and pressed it to Erestor's neck from behind. His hands reached up to take it, but she pushed them away firmly, putting pressure and soothing warmth on the swollen red welts and cuts that wound their way around the advisor's throat. The cloth was followed with a sweet-smelling balm that she massaged gently into the wounds.

Glorfindel stated repeatedly that the cuts on his shoulder were shallow and had already closed, but she insisted on looking at them. Once Glorfindel had, with much irritation, removed his tunics, she proceeded to clean and bandage the injuries silently. He replaced his clothing with equal silence when she finished and had turned to build up the dying fire. She looked oddly, heart-wrenchingly beautiful as she stood silhouetted by the dim light, her hair hiding her face from view, arms crossed, tall and imposing as her father, elegant as her mother. Her entire family and her betrothed had been torn from her; she was now utterly alone, her world dark.

She moved away from the fire slowly, almost reluctantly, and sat between the two advisors, tucking her feet beneath her in a gesture she had not indulged in since she was an elfling, and leaned on Erestor, her face buried in his chest. He put his arms around her and held her gently, though he did not look at her. Arwen's hand reached out suddenly, blindly searching, and Glorfindel took it unheeded. She pulled him closer, holding their clasped hands to her cheek.

She never asked them who had dealt the injuries; she already knew.

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**A/N** As always, please review. I hope this chapter made some sense of the last one.


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter Seven_

"I have informed the officials of the situation. They will know how to tell the others."

"What did you tell them?"

"The truth. Or as much of it as they needed to know."

Glorfindel sighed. Erestor was right; the residents of Imladris had a right to know what had befallen their lord, and why he would shortly be dead.

Erestor seemed to read his thoughts, because he laid a comforting, but firm hand on the warrior's shoulder. "He is no longer Elrond," he said quietly. "It must be done. We cannot allow the Enemy to have him. He would be an invincible weapon in his hands."

Glorfindel nodded. "I know, mellon. And yet my heart grieves."

"As does mine," Erestor assured him. "But it must be out of mourning for our lord's passing, not for what we shall do. It will not be we who destroy him. He is already dead."

The Balrog-slayer nodded again, hardening his heart and mind. The advisors' eyes met briefly, and they embraced, sharing in each others' pain, before gathering their things and beginning the seemingly endless journey to the dungeons.

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They did not pause before the door, but pushed it open and closed it behind them again without ceremony. They did not glance at the leering prisoner before them, but each turned to the side and placedhis torch in a bracket. Only then did they take heed of the chained and fettered condemned as he stood, tall and straight,watching them with a mocking smile on the features they had known and loved so well.

"I know what you would do," Elrond said,cocking his head to the side. "I see it in your minds. Such folly!"

Glorfindel drew his sword, and Erestor nocked an arrow. Elrond began to laugh, softly at first,but the sound grew in volume until it ricocheted off the stone walls, ringing in their ears. The torches flickered and dimmed. His eyes, flaming pools of gory silver, flew open as he watched them, still leering wolfishly.

"You think to kill me with _those?_" he growled, and his voice was unnaturally deep and dark, cold and cutting as the Grinding Ice.

As soon as he finished speaking, Erestor's arrow exploded, splinters flying in every direction, and Glorfindel's sword flew out of his hand, the blade cracked. Suffocating black tendrils were reaching into their minds, vibrating with a terrible, jolting energy. They held their ground, throwing up the mental walls so carefully honed over the millennia. Glorfindel reached out and took Erestor's arm, and the chieftain was soon enveloped in a warm, golden glow of strength.

Elrond's leer became a vicious snarl, and the tendrils snapped and crackled in frustration. The ground beneath them shook.

"Fools," he hissed, and it was Sauron's tones that overlaid his own. "Fools!"

The manacles binding him to the wall shattered into hundreds of shards, and the advisors threw up their arms to protect their faces from the shrapnel. But as they took their eyes off the Enemy, the darkness descended upon them, terrible, choking, blisteringly hot, then cold.

Glorfindel was drowning. The blackness was all too familiar. He could smell burning flesh and charred stone and hear the screams of the dying, the shriek of eagles as he fell to his death, skin seared away….

As his memory progressed, however, a soft white light, like starlight, pricked before him. It grew slowly, and he realized that it was not starlight, but warm, gentle sands, calm waves rushing up and down, up and down in asoothing rhythm. He raised his eyes. The yellow-green of grass that grows near the sea stretched up beyond the beach, the slender stalks rippling in a cool breeze. The surf filled his ears, and above him stars glittered in the dawn. His heart sang.

_Valinor! Ai, home of my heart! Land of my birth! Thy sweetness comforts me, thy memory sustains me. When shall I see thee again, Blessed Shore? Ai, Elentári! Elentári, Tintallë! Guide me home again!_

Erestor heard and felt his companion's lament as it washed over him, bringing with it glimpses of white shores and Anor's rise over glorious meadows. Peace and strength flooded his fëa; the sounds of the sea took him.

_Guide me home again!_

A shriek of rage forced them back to the present. Elrond stood before them, great and terrible in his wrath, the darkness writhing over him like so many black snakes. But they could not be shaken. Their sorrow was soothed by hope, hope in their homecoming, hope in Círdan's steadfastness.

Glorfindel was rising in stature, equally as terrible as Elrond in his beauty and light. Merely looking at him, Erestor could hear the waves, the cry of the gulls….

_We go, and take all those whom we can find with us._

The golden Elda's voice spoke in Erestor's mind, and he nodded imperceptibly.

_Go._

He turned and left the room as Glorfindel blocked Elrond's progress, breakinginto a run as soon as he reached the hallway. He didn't know where his feet were taking him, but he trusted them.

There were no stars visible in the smog-like blackness that enveloped Imladris. Little fires burned on the perimeters of the House, and gleaming yellow eyes flickered and danced eagerly in the light. The croons and growls of night creatures reached his ears as he climbed the tower, his unintentional destination,the staircase winding up and around. There was a strange presence in the Enemy's encampments tonight.

He placed one hand on the beautiful silver, mithril-emblazonedbell, caressing the workmanship and recalling the glory days of Rivendell. A smiling Elrond, a laughing Celebrían, the patter of elflings' feet. The peal of this bell had always been one of joy, to greet the children or the warriors of its House upon their return, or to signal a gathering, the unification of the House. Now its song would ring one last time upon its home before it was forever silenced, and its last sacrifice would serve to warn those whom the Valar had chosen to escape and flee with both hröa and fëa, and so it would fulfill its duty.

He twined the rope lovingly around his hands and pulled.

The bell tolled once. Twice. Thrice. Imladris knew the call, for so it had been designated when it knew it would fall. It was a call to flee, to flee West, for the Enemy was within.

Imladris held its breath as the last echo failed, and then the night exploded.

Erestor fell to the ground as the whole House shook and trembled, the sky flaring red. When he had clambered to his feet again, he saw that a hole had been blasted through the western wing by what appeared to be a flaming boulder.

Below him, the screeches of the swarming enemy masses could be heard as they entered the House, and it was mere moments before the screams of his people followed.

_Elbereth._

He tasted bile as he flew down the steps again. Arwen. He must find Undómiel. His thoughts flicked back to Glorfindel, and his heart plummeted. Had he survived?

At that moment, something golden shot out of the corridor on his right and fell into step with him. The pain in his chest eased; though his face and arm were bloody, Glorfindel was upright, his expression resolute. The golden light had not wavered.

_West. West. West._

The whisper floated around them as they ran, audible even amongst the sounds of battle and crackling fire. For Imladris was ablaze, lighting the sky like a great beacon to Sauron's power. But they would flee West, and, whether or not they sailed, they were going home.

Arwen stepped out of the shadows suddenly as they sped around a corner, and they halted, watching her. She stared steadily back at them, though her face was covered in blood, grime, and tears.

"I remain," she said softly.

Erestor's stomach began to writhe in horror. No, she could not stay! But Glorfindel took her hands in his and kissed them, then her forehead, his light illuminating her and her deathly paleness. It was then that it dawned on him, andErestor's stomach droppedaway completely. She was cold – cold, dark, and lightless. She was mortal. She could not go. She had made her choice.

He reached out to touch her cheek, but knew they could not wait any longer. He and Glorfindel turned away from her, and tears stung his eyes. Never again did he lay eyes on the living beauty, mortal or immortal, in that world, the world remade, or beyond the circles of the world, of Arwen Undómiel.

Imladris rumbled again as the roof mere yards from them was torn away. But they had acquired companions now, and they moved westward as a loose group, though the enemy was hot on their heels. The fell one by one, and their numbers diminished.

They stumbled into the open night suddenly, all except Glorfindel gasping and wide-eyed with fear. The ground below them was slick with blood, screams rent the air, and then the world fell silent.

They froze, breath catching, and looked around for the source of the deep, footstep-like thundering. All activity had ceased in its approach. The very blood in their veins seemed to curdle as they listened and watched, waiting….

The figure that emerged from the woods, that blazed with an unearthly, harshly radiant light, that was painfully, worshipfully beautiful, was one that Erestor only vaguely recognized. It was a mere reflection of what he knew – or perhaps it was a revelation. Raw, crushing power was on its shoulders like a mantle, supremacy and lordship on its brow.

The Lady Galadriel was terrible to behold as she strode down the scorched and bloodied pathway created for her. Her eyes, piercing and dreadful, did not stray from what had once been the entrance to Imladris, and she stopped, statuesque, before the broken steps. Blood ran down the rivulets in the marble like tiny waterfalls. She waited.

From within the depths of the cavern before her emerged a second figure, as dark as she was light; its presence seemed a great, all-consuming hole in the night. Its eyes burned as silver fire, and it wielded its power as an aura of darkness and lightning around it. In its arms was a body, fair and still and bearing his likeness, the only difference being in the motionless figure's womanhood. With disgust, the dark figure cast the body from him, throwing it down on the steps where it lay, broken and forlorn. The eyes of Undómiel were closed, and though her father's knife was in her heart, her beauty shone through her last expression of sorrow and despair.

And so the Lord Elrond joined the Lady Galadriel, and together they returned to their legion. Out of the darkness came the Nazgûl, suddenly and as spirits of wind and night, to fall in behind them as their entourage, crouched and bowed as servants.

Once the Lady Galadriel had resumed her position before the troops, Elrond turned, his eyes roving over those whom he had once called his own, finally falling on Glorfindel. He did not leer, nor did he beckon, but instead retraced his steps to the center of the clearing before Imladris, faced the Elf-lord, and waited.

Glorfindel's eyes met his unflinchingly for several long moments before they turned to Erestor's for the last time. He gripped his arm.

_Lead them on. Lead them West. I will find you there._

Erestor nodded and gripped the warrior's wrist. A small smile flitted across Glorfindel's face before he extracted himself from the head of the refugees and strode forward to meet Elrond.

The clash of their swords rang in the onlookers' ears like a mighty clap of thunder, but Erestor was not watching. He had taken up Glorfindel's place and fled into the night, the survivors following in his wake. They could hear the howl of wolves and snarls of Orcs behind them, but their hope and sorrow unitedgave them the fervor to outstrip their pursuers.

They had not gone far when the sounds of the battle they had left behind ceased suddenly, and out of the darkness rose a cry, bearing with it the last flare of light, strength, and hope.

"_Aurë entuluva!_"

And they knew that Lord Glorfindel has perished. A single tear traced a grief-stricken path down Erestor's stony cheek.

Night closed over them.

_**Finis**_

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**A/N **_Aurë entuluva:_ Quenya, meaning "day shall come again." Spoken by Húrin in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad as he stood alone and slew his enemies. He was captured soon after and taken to Morgoth by Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs, and met torment there. "…but it is not said that Húrin asked ever of Morgoth either mercy or death…." See _The Silmarillion_, "Quenta Silmarillion," "Chapter XX: Of the Fifth Battle: Nirnaeth Arnoediad" for the full story and Glorfindel's own part in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.

Many thanks to those who followed this story through, and most especially to those who reviewed. I'm sorry it couldn't end happier, but I hope you're at least somewhat satisfied. I also apologize for how long it took me to finish – cut me some slack. It was a tough ending to write.

I am toying with the idea of an epilogue, but I will have to see what the reviewers think.

- Eärendilion


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